A Date with Some Old Guys on a Mountain
by Fendo
Summary: On the way up to High Hrothgar to meet with the Greybeards, the Dovahkiin mulls over her thoughts and frustrations over the past few weeks while her fingers threaten to fall off in the cold. Oneshot.


Naelin trudged through the snow, icy cold winds and the frozen powder on the ground chilling her thin frame to the bone. Her joints felt stiff, though her recent bout with a certain _frost troll_ a certain villager below didn't think was worth mentioning helped her regain some movement and warmth back. Only managing to shoot the damn thing in two of its three eyes gave her enough cover to escape, but the adrenaline rush hadn't quite died down yet.

She tugged her scarf tighter around her neck, the one that dear Fralia Grey-Mane knitted for her, other hand placed firmly on the hilt of her dagger. She'd been trekking up this mountain for a good few hours now, and she was getting sick of all this climbing. Not to mention all the wolves and other unpleasant creatures she'd have to run from or kill. Her years traveling on her own may have conditioned her some for this kind of thing, but that sure as hell didn't mean she was ready for or happy with this.

It was midday now, though she could only guess, since the swirling clouds that covered the crest of the mountain blocked out most of the sunlight. Was it always this damn gloomy up here? Gritting her teeth and grumbling against the winds, she noticed another one of those shrines along the mountain path. She wanted to stop, take a breather, because this burning cold was _killing_ her lungs and her legs were aching terribly, and this was a good a place as any, but another part of her told her to keep marching. The stubborn part, surely.

Giving in, she stopped for a few moments, taking deep, painful breaths to try to slow her heartbeat down. She really hoped she was near High Hrothgar by now.

She leaned heavily against the tall rocks jutting from the snow, pulling her scarf over her nose and stuffing her hands under her arms. Of all the lands to be stuck in, why this frigid place? She missed the mild climates of Cyrodiil, and at this point even the burning deserts of Hammerfell were starting to sound nice. But she knew she was really just bitter over _everything_ \- the capture, her near-death experience in Helgen, lack of funds, her OTHER near death experiences, the stupid thing with the glowing wall, those dickish Dunmer in the Barrow, the OTHER dragon, the Jarl, the Call, the cold, the list went on! What the hell really _was_ a Dragonborn anyway?

What she wouldn't give for things to be _simple_ again.

Sighing to herself, Naelin squinted against the harsh gales, peering into a mess of snow and muddled colors up ahead. A snowstorm had started to pick up a while ago, and was a factor in her escaping the troll, but she was worried of how much worse it could get. She _really_ didn't want to have to sit this out for who knew how long.

The elf shook her head roughly, and trudged on, powering her way through fatigue and strong currents. She couldn't see more than fifty feet in front of her, and she'd have to be careful if she didn't want to get lost or walk off the mountain. It would really suck tumbling down and dying now.

After taking a good few handfuls of steps, the gales blowing around her all the harder (she'd have to note how quickly storms could get worse in this land, good grief) the Bosmer yelped a surprised curse as her foot bashed into something hard in the path. Growling irritably, she knelt down to rub at her injured foot, and inspect what the shit just had to make her day worse.

A rock, obviously. Big rock. Long... flat rock. With another rock on top. Not a rock. Well, yes a rock, but a stair rock. Stair rocks that she'd somehow managed to miss while staring blindly ahead into white. She was asking for it then. Her foot was certainly not appreciative of that, and she carefully wiggled her toes as she looked back up to the whirl of snow.

She rose back up, taking the first step up the staircase, when the winds around her became more gentle. Not that gentle, but enough to be able to see further ahead. She paused, watching as the snow slowed to reveal a-

Sanctuary. More stairs ahead first, but a _sanctuary_. High Hrothgar. The Greybeards. She'd made it. And it had been right in front of her!

All pain in her foot and stiffness of her joints pushed to the backburner (not the cold though, that was still pretty forefront), she quickened her pace, a wry grin wriggling it's way onto her face. Though she wasn't exactly happy or entirely willing to be here, she was happy to at least have made it.

And besides, she'd like to get this whole "Soul Absorbing, Ancient Language Reading/Hearing Super Power" thing explained as well.

* * *

*authors note: the 'diskish dunmer' she refers to is my OC Drelas, whom Naelin meets during her ransacking of Bleakfalls, a few weeks after she denies the quest to retrieve the Dragonstone - not Arvel the Swift, who has the Golden Claw. though, this may later be retconned since im reworking a few things atm.

[EDIT] please know that i wrote most of this at like 2am, and hadnt played the game in over a year. ive been playing again recently, and ive noticed some inaccuracies after climbing the Throat of the World again :'D ive fixed a couple, but theres not much more i can do without rewriting a big chunk of this. so ive decided to leave as-is.


End file.
